


Hang a Shining Star (upon the highest bough)

by Pigeon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Gen, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Non-Con, Implied Underage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight of Dean's Christmases - '82 - '06</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang a Shining Star (upon the highest bough)

Christmas 1982

Mary watched the slide of the headlights, thick yellow beams sweeping smooth over the ceiling, and put aside the herbal tea Martha had assured her would help with the morning (and afternoon, evening, night) sickness.

She heard the door open and then there was Dean, woolly hat pulled down low over his ears, soft light hair hidden from view, running into the room and clambering up onto her lap.

“Did you get one?”

He nodded his head vigorously and pressed his cold little mouth to the warmth of her neck. “Biggest they had,” he whispered.

“Oh?” She shifted his weight, pressing him more to her side, off the growing swell of her belly.

“Uh-huh.” He giggled. “Daddy says it might not fit, so big.”

She shook her head, “And you picked it out?” she tutted gravely. “I’m not having you making a hole in my nice roof if it’s too big for the room, young man.”

Dean giggled, twisting to look to where John was dragging in the largest Christmas tree she’d ever seen into the front room.

“We’re supposed to be saving,” she remarked, keeping her tone mild, and pulling damp mittens from Dean’s small hands.

“I got it at a good price.” John hefted the tree into the centre of the room. “And he’s old enough to enjoy Christmas now, and he wanted this one…”

“The baby will like the tree too.” Dean’s fingers stretched out, finding the small bump he’d been told was to be his new little brother or sister. “The baby will want to see a big tree.”

“The baby won’t be here in time to see the tree, Sweetie.” Mary pressed Dean’s hand more firmly to her belly. “It’s another five months until the baby arrives.” She tugged off Dean’s woolly hat and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ll just have to show him the Christmas Tree and lights next year.”

  


Christmas 1985

Sam’s mouth was sticky with the sweets Caleb had given them. Dean could smell the sickly candy scents, spun sugar and jellied fruits, the slightly darker scent of chocolate, could still feel the confectionary coating the inside of his mouth and down his throat.

Sam was pressed between John and Caleb in the cab of the truck, dozing, one hand fitfully grasped in his father’s sleeve. John driving, still too wired from the hunt to do nothing but sit. Caleb had Dean held tight on his lap, strong white fingers, hard and cold as candles slipping beneath his anorak and sweater and pressed against his ribs.

Christmas night and the streets were deserted.

Dean counted the Christmas Trees lit by white lights, coloured lights, flashing lights they passed.

Caleb’s fingers brushing against his sides, made him shiver.

  


Christmas 1987

The hand lands on Dean’s shoulder and he’s instantly awake and fighting. His arms are gripped, shaken hard even as he begins to kick out, snarling.

“Damnit, Dean! Will you quit that!” Bobby’s face is close to his own, and Dean pauses, blood running cold.

“Jesus, you are going to be the death of me, boy.” Bobby lets go of him to run a hand through his own hair. “You’d think I was going to murder you in your bed.”

“Bobby?”

“You awake now?”

Dean nods, eyes painfully wide.

“Heard tell of a pack of werewolves headed this way. Need to get you and Sam up and out of here now.”

Dean sighs, tension suddenly slipping from his body.

“Dean? Did you hear me?”

“Yessir.”

“Then help me get your brother up and dressed.”

Dean slips from his bed, wakes Sam, bundling him into warm clothes, ignoring his sleepy protests. “What about Dad?”

“He’s already gone after the pack, Dean.”

Dean nods, pulling on his own coat, and slipping the hunting knife he’d been gifted that morning into his pocket.

  


Christmas 1991

The motel has purple and orange tessellated wallpaper and candlewick bedspreads. Dean’s nicked a bit of rather old and ropey green tinsel and draped it over the TV set in the corner. Their Dad is whetting his favourite blades on an oilstone, and Sam is curled in a ball, head down, reading a copy of Wind in the Willows he’d found in reception.

Dean stirs the tin of Beef Stew he’s heating in the little kitchenette.

There’s a smash of glass outside and sharp drunken voices.

Sam looks up, fingers tightening on his book, he glances over to Dean, who holds his gaze  
for a second.

“Come and cut some bread for dinner, Sammy.”

Sam nods, marks his place with a gas receipt, and moves over to his brother’s side.

“Dinner will be ready in about two minutes, Dad.”

John doesn’t answer, a bottle of Jim Bean sits half empty at his elbow.

  


Christmas 1995

Sam is sulking.

Dean straps a knife to his ankle and checks the shotgun is loaded. He scrubs his hand through his short hair, tries to list mentally all the things he could possibly need; weapons, ID, bandages and gauze.

Sam is sulking and all he wants to do now is get out of there before Dad and Sammy have another blow-up.

“You’re still hurt.”

“It’s a scratch, Sammy.”

He can hear Pastor Jim puttering about the kitchen. Jim sings to himself whilst he cooks- not hymns or soft folksy songs, but dirty blues numbers, all innuendo and filthy insinuations.

“You can’t lift your right arm.”

“Can so,” Dean blurts out sharply.

“Can’t!”

The deep roar of the Impala’s engine cuts through the argument and Dean gifts Sam with a glare; “Just make sure you save some turkey and stuffing for me, Sammy.”

Sam folds his arms. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

  


  
Christmas 1998

It’s a warm smell of beer and peanuts. Dean folds himself over the pool table. This is easy. This is more than easy. He lines up the next shot, grinning up at the chump soon to be twenty bucks poorer, and lets the cue dance through his fingers.

He’s had a beer or two, no more than that, not even enough for a slight buzz.

The same monotonous Christmas songs keep playing on the jukebox, all the identical saccharine dreams of snow and goodwill to all men and happy fucking sleigh bells.

Dean offers the bartender an almost genuine smile and asks for another beer and chaser.

He’s sixty dollars up.

He’s sixty dollars up and if he hits one hundred tonight he’s going to damn well splurge on a tree with baubles, tinsel, and a freaking star on top.

“Well...”

The guy has a warm voice, all slow molasses and twenty-year old whiskey.

Dean turns towards him, raises an eyebrow and waits for the next line.

“You just must be the boy my mother warned me about.”

“Should have listened to her.”

“Should have but didn’t.” The guy signals the bartender for another round. He watches Dean sip his drink, eyes lingering on his mouth and throat as he swallows.

Dean decides the extra forty dollars can wait.

  


Christmas 2003

The parking lot is damned cold. A sprinkling of snow dims the squalor of the place, pretties up the landscape, but does nothing for the ache in Dean’s knees.

It’s Christmas night and he figures the guy thinks all his damned presents have come at once.

The guy’s hands are heavy and rough on his head, and it’s easy to remember like this, with sharp gravel biting through denim into his knees, why he keeps his hair short, too short for anyone to be able to grab effectively.

The guy is babbling all sorts of nonsense. He keeps hearing words like _pretty and slut and fucking pretty little cocksucking mouth_ and ends up putting a little more effort into it just to shut the dude up.

John is off hunting a poltergeist in Rochester.

Sam is off in Stanford.

And even as the guy keens and tries to choke Dean, ramming his cock deep down into Dean’s throat, Dean knows he’d rather be here than back in the motel chugging down a six-pack and watching _Gee, It’s a Wonderful Life_ on his own.

  


  
Christmas 2006

“Peace on Earth, my ass.” Dean slammed his duffle bag down. “Goodwill to all men except the ones that save you from freaking zombies.” He kicked the bedpost hard, “What a bitch!”

Sam locked the door carefully, hooking up the security chain, sliding across the bolt. “She’d just seen you shoot her husband in the head.” He tugged the curtains across the window, the room awash in dull red light. “She might have been in a state of shock, Dean.”

“You don’t get to go all emo and sympathetic with the nutjobs who raise the dead and then get a bit pissed when you put ‘em back in their graves, Sammy.” Dean brushed a hand through his hair, pulling out a clump of cemetery dirt. “Specially when they try to claw your damn eyes out.”

“I’m fine,” Sam muttered, stepping up close behind Dean, one large hand curling around Dean’s nape. “I’m fine, the zombie’s gone.” They both smelt of mud and corpses, rotten scents it would take hours to scrub from their skin.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed.

“I’m here.” Sam leant down to kiss the side of Dean’s neck, feeling a short rough tremble go through him. “Let it go, Dean.” He slid a hand down, over Dean’s shoulder, along his side, down until his thumb rested on the belt buckle. “It’s Christmas.”


End file.
